Of myself I am nothing but, God, you, the father of the heavens, father of love and laborer of words that manifest as powers of light into the heaviness of dark, you fill the dark and then I am something.
I begin as seed in the labor of your love, to become your infant, a lump of clay.
I am yet to know the taste of your greater fruit, but succor at the drops of nectar that is your power.
You opened the door.
Was it I who opened the door, to the wandering and aimless thoughts of my mind and invited you in?
Did I call to you? Did you hear me? Did I long for the fullness of a lord who came to reside with me?
Didn’t I hear you call my name in the sleepy womb of my bed?
That was you rousing me to life!